


Analogue of the Human Body

by Indybaggins



Category: MythBusters RPF
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Casual Sex, Lack of Communication, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accidental drunk kissing, sex in the workplace and a whole lot of 'not-talking-about-it'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Analogue of the Human Body

 

 

The first time it happens they’re both drunk. They’re leaning together on a sofa in a boring hotel room, limbs comfortably loose and spread over each other. Kari has left to get more beer and Tory doesn’t intend to kiss Grant until he’s already in the middle of doing so, uncoordinated as they bang their faces together, lips numb and sloppy with alcohol. They laugh and snort and paw at each other’s crotches until Tory comes kind of unexpectedly into Grant’s sweaty hand and Grant leans over the side of the sofa to vomit up chunks of Doritos.

They don’t talk about that one. 

 

The next time they’re working on refitting a car. It’s hot, even in the air-conditioned shop, and Tory traces two fingers streaked with grease and dust between the ridge of Grant’s jeans and his thin t-shirt as they’re about ready to break for lunch. Grant doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t pull away either. 

Instead of eating they walk out of sight behind the array of trashed cars haphazardly parked behind the shop. The sunshine glitters off the warped carriages and stings Tory’s eyes as they walk further and further into the labyrinth of scrap metal. It smells like gasoline and something burning. 

Eventually Grant stops and leans against a car, expression carefully guarded. 

Tory feels like he owes Grant one from before at the very least, so he crouches down in the brown, dried out grass, kneels on some paint flakes and ragged bits of safety glass. There’s a bee somewhere close, making a buzzing sound. He pulls open Grant’s zipper, hurries his soft dick out so he can lick it down warm and bitter on the back of his tongue. 

Cars pass by in the distance, far enough away not to be a problem, but Grant tenses every time a new one rumbles past anyway. Hot pinpricks of sweat start stinging the back of Tory’s neck. Spit runs over his chin, Grant’s wiry pubes feel rough against his cheeks and his legs are trembling by the time Grant finally comes. Tory swallows it all and grins as he wipes his mouth on his t-shirt though. He did it. 

But Grant is pulling up his pants and looking away, eyes squinting against the sun. 

So Tory gets up stiffly and starts jerking himself off, aims towards the frame of the car. It only takes a couple rough strokes. Grant looks at him and reaches out hesitantly but it’s already too late. Tory comes, stripes the car but mostly the grass underneath their feet. The sweat on his lower back and in the hollows of his knees feels like ants. 

They end up not talking about that one either.

 

After that it’s the wooden bathroom shack of the bomb range. It smells like piss and shit and when Kari pushes the round red button to set off a series of explosions later Tory can still feel Grant’s wet slick of come on his upper thigh when he smiles at her.

Then the back seat of Grant’s car, on top of old pizza boxes, sharp bits of metal and crinkly, greasy wrappers that get stuck to Tory’s naked back. He pulls a muscle, Grant bangs his face against the parking brake and walks around with a purple bruise over his left cheekbone for days that Tory can’t stop glancing at. 

Then a Monday afternoon where Grant is still wearing his welders mask and gloves when Tory pushes him into a storage closet, locks the door and goes down on him between the mops and buckets and industrial cleaning agents. He makes him laugh, almost. 

Next there’s the orchid greenery, a glass house filled with humming machines, holed rubber mats on the floor and droplets of condensation rolling off the walls. Grant has brought a condom and Tory keeps on rubbing and smelling his hands after, certain he still has lube on his fingers even though he’s washed them twice. 

After that the abandoned military base, where the air smells like neglect, sour and cold. Where the cheery printed wallpaper has faded, peeled down to reveal splotches of black mould underneath and Tory figures out what it takes to make Grant moan (sucking his inner thigh hard enough to leave marks).

 

Then the grey, empty concrete wasteland of the dry docks, both of them in their oversized plastic safety jackets. The experimental set up was a bust. They’ve been here for two days trying to get it right. It’s started to rain lightly. 

They move closer and closer throughout the day. Grant grabs Tory’s hand and squeezes it, once. His fingers feel cold and stiff. Tory nods but still it’s nearly sunset when they can get out of sight and Grant loosens his belt to reveal his oddly beautifully shaped buttocks, the flesh goosebumped against the cold. Tory slicks up his shaking fingers, breathes warmth onto them and pushes inside of him carefully. There’s seagulls far away, drifting in the sky. High cranes, large grey clouds racing past. 

Grant’s hair is standing up in defiant tufts from wearing his safety helmet earlier. His hands are clawing at the brick wall while the rain picks up in intensity, so Tory kisses the side of his neck to make him shudder. He watches his own callused hands on Grant’s hips, feels the searing hot stretch as they move together, make a slick slopping sound that seems embarrassingly loud in the muted silence. 

Tory searches for Grant’s dick and pumps it until Grant’s breaths become groans and he thinks he catches his own name in there, interspersed with ‘fuck’ and ‘please’. 

They still don’t talk about it.

Not yet.

 

 

 

 


End file.
